A third and then a fourth fell at his feet. Suddenly, a torrent of feathers whirled down from the ceiling, swooping around his body, tickling his skin, knocking him off balance. A voice, clear through the rustling, issuing an order. ‘Grab the Last Gorgon’s head.’

He crawled the few hands’ breadth to where the sack was, and took hold of it firmly. He could feel the head beneath the material. It was horribly cold.

The rustling and the wind immediately stopped, and Tisamenos looked up. He was no longer in his room. He was somewhere else, somewhere he didn’t recognise. This wasn’t where he’d first met the Swallows. Alert, he was aware how defenceless he was. But he was ready now.

The chamber was much larger, cut into stone, perhaps underground. Seated on four stone chairs were figures in masks: a swallow, a lion, a dragon and a bear. There was light coming from somewhere, bright, flickering.

‘Who are you?’ shouted Tisamenos. ‘What is this place?’

‘We are the Swallows,’ answered a voice, though Tisamenos could not tell where it came from. ‘We watch and we wait, until we will act.’

He lifted up the sack so that it was level with his head, the stone ringing in his skull. ‘You sent me into danger,’ he said, voice thrilling with anger. ‘I went into the cave of the Last Gorgon. I faced her, and I defeated her. So much for my softness.’ He hurled the bag down at the feet of the watchers. ‘I dare you. I dare you to open it.’ He held up his mutilated hand so that they could see the stump.

None of the figures moved.

‘Cowards,’ he snarled. ‘Hiding behind tricks and masks!’

A voice came from the lion mask. ‘We did not know Euryale was still alive. I am sorry.’

Tisamenos exploded. ‘Open it! Open it and see – look on her! Then tell me who killed my mother. I have earned that.’

The figure in the swallow mask stood up and revealed her face. It was Hero, looking with interest at Tisamenos. She made the sign to avert the evil eye, and opened up the sack. Immediately she gasped, closed the bag, then gingerly tipped the head out onto the floor.

The shield and the head clattered onto the stone, locked in eternal admiration.

‘The head of the Last Gorgon – think what we could do with that …’ gasped the figure in the dragon mask.

‘Remove your masks,’ commanded Hero, sharply. The seated figures did so, some slowly, some fast. Sitting there was the tall thug, who nodded, eyes downcast, at Tisamenos. The one with long moustaches bowed low, and clasped his hands together. The dancing girl simply stared at him.

‘You have faced more danger than I imagined,’ said the thug. ‘Our tasks were not so difficult. You have given us a thing of great power.’